


Red Lips Staining Marble

by hyenateeth



Series: Gilding [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Genderswap, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenateeth/pseuds/hyenateeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Grantaire noticed a girl was was when she was 12 and her name was Isabelle, and it was easy for her to convince herself that she just wanted to be like her. When she dreamt of kissing her, that did not mean anything. She was confused. That was all.</p><p>There was no such confusion when it came to Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Lips Staining Marble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Les Mis kink meme, the prompt asking for Modern AU, genderbent femslash E/R, with pining. Edited from the original posting.
> 
> Warnings for some suicidal ideation, alcohol abuse, general angst/self-esteem issues, and talk of disordered eating. 
> 
> I have more ideas for this AU that I might write one day.
> 
> Oh this is my first un-anon foray into this fandom okay gonna go panic now bye.

The first time Grantaire noticed a girl was was when she was 12 and her name was Isabelle, and it was easy for her to convince herself that she just wanted to be like her. Isabelle was pretty and soft, and all her life Grantaire wished she could be pretty.

She was not pretty, she was sure of that. She looked too wild to be pretty. Her dark hair was untamable. Her nose was crooked and too big from when it was broken when she was 8, an accident related to a particularly brutal game of Capture the Flag, and she had a scar above her left eyebrow from the time she fell out of a tree when she was 10. She bit her nails and bruised easily and her teeth were a little crooked, and she pretended not to care, but she did wish she was pretty like Isabelle.

(People called Isabelle _Belle_ for short. Of course they did. People always just called her Grantaire, even before she entered University and it became somewhat of a fashion to be called by one’s last name. She had not gone by her given name since she was nine years old.)

So it was easy to say it was just admiration. She wanted to be like Isabelle. When she dreamt of kissing her, that did not mean anything. She was confused. That was all.

There was no such confusion when it came to Enjolras.

Of course this was almost ten years later. Grantaire had worked out pretty much all confusion by then, at least about her sexuality, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when she saw Enjolras for the first time and _gasped_ , honest to god gasped like some shitty romance flick, but it still was somehow.

There was no way she could ever tell herself she wanted to be Enjolras. She might as well tell herself she wanted to be the sea or the sky, because it would be just as unreachable. She knew that the instant she saw her, when their friends introduced them in the bar, and Grantaire didn’t really believe in love at first sight, but it was definitely _something_ at first sight. 

Something more than attraction.

Not that it wasn’t attraction too. 

Enjolras was gorgeous, remarkably so. She had shimmering blonde hair which she tied back, except some of it always fell out of the tie and fell across her face, and deep blue eyes and long pale eyelashes and high cheekbones and fucking _beautiful_ lips. She wore no make up at all and sometimes Grantaire wanted to kiss her just to see her own red lipstick smudged across those beautiful lips, but she never acted on that urge. It would be wrong. It would be like kissing _The Birth of Venus_ , smearing _Flaming June_ , staining _Venus of Urbino_. 

It would be wrong to it’s core, because Enjolras was more lovely than any painting Grantaire could remember from her Art History class.

She didn’t even need make up. Not like Grantaire did, Grantaire who never really grew into her looks, who believed herself to be ugly and knew herself to be unpleasant and distracted from it with red lips and dark eyeliner. Enjolras needed none of that. 

But it was more than just attraction. There was something about Enjolras, a quality that Grantaire could not quite describe. A passion, a pureness. She was undiluted, concentrated fire, and Grantaire could not help but bask in her light. 

She loved Enjolras, probably.

Which, okay, was remarkably stupid, even for Grantaire, because she didn’t really _know_ Enjolras. No. Well. She knew Enjolras. She was roped into joining her silly little social justice club because she can’t say no to anything the woman says, and she spent most of the meetings learning things about Enjolras instead of the actual issues. She knew Enjolras’ major and her favorite color and her pet issues to debate and her philosophies and how she took her coffee and okay maybe Grantaire knew Enjolras pretty damn well but that was not the point because Enjolras didn’t know _her_ , and didn’t like her for that matter. Grantaire knew. She saw how Enjolras looked at her, and more importantly, how she didn’t.

And who could blame her. Grantaire was not like Enjolras. They were opposite in every way. If Enjolras was gold, Grantaire was coal. 

Grantaire did not like herself much either. 

She was cynical and rude and still too wild, and she drank a lot and cut her own hair and sometimes she got into moods where she would not eat anything and would instead survive off of coffee and liquor for a few days, and once she passed out and now Jehan (whose name is actually Jeanne and who was Grantaire’s roommate for two years until she decided to move in with Courfeyrac and Grantaire decided living alone appealed to her) would interrogate her about what she eats and once actually yelled at a bartender for serving Grantaire when she hadn’t eaten all day. 

She thought Enjolras might do that too sometimes, forget to eat. Enjolras was just too caught up in important business, in changing the world, to worry about petty things like eating. She had heard Combeferre scold her sometimes, telling her that she “ _will be no good for protests if you can’t even remember to eat-_ ” 

It made her feel no closer to Enjolras. Because that was just it, wasn’t it? They were different sides of the same coin, Enjolras too lost in her work to eat, Grantaire too lost in the bottle. 

It made Grantaire’s chest ache.

Once, at the Musain, Courfeyrac slid into the seat next to her and muttered, “Everyone can see the way you look at her.”

“Everyone looks at her that way,” Grantaire had laughed. “She’s hot.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Courfeyrac had said, and Grantaire knew.

She got spectacularly drunk that night and took home a pretty blond girl who kept giggling about “ _I’ve never been with a girl before_ ” and she let Grantaire eat her out and left without returning the favor, but Grantaire could not complain too much because she had been picturing Enjolras the whole time anyway.

That happened semi-regularly. Grantaire was not so pretty or so clever that girls fawned over her, or wished to date her or hold her, but sometimes, when she made an effort, they would go home with her, and for just a little while Grantaire could pretend.

That was how it went. Grantaire watched Enjolras from afar, watched the burn in her eyes and the shine in her hair and listened to the beautiful fury in her voice.

She wished she could feel the same way Enjolras did, she wished she thought she could change the world. She wished she could earn Enjolras’ smiles and approval and kindness. She wished for that more than her kisses. But it could never be. Try as she might, Grantaire could not believe. Maybe she could pretend, but Enjolras really deserved more than that.

(The first time they had met, Enjolras had shook her hand, and her hand had been warm and strong. “Enjolras,” she had said. “Renée Enjolras.” “Grantaire,” she had replied. “Just Grantaire.”)

She ran into Enjolras in a coffee shop once, both of them alone. It was odd. She had never really talked to Enjolras outside of the context of their friends, without someone there to distract Enjolras when Grantaire says something contrary so she does not have to feel the full wrath of her disdain. 

“Well if it isn’t the goddess Artemis herself, in real life! I did not know you took breaks from saving people!” Grantaire had laughed as Enjolras joined the line behind her. Enjolras looked at her evenly. It was cold outside, and the pink that was coloring the woman’s cheeks made Grantaire ache with happiness. She was wearing a long red coat and jeans a little more hair was falling in front of her face than normal and it was all too beautiful.

“I _do_ take breaks for class,” said Enjolras after a bit. It was almost a joke and Grantaire loved it, grinned at her, all teeth like a wild animal. Then Enjolras said “I didn’t know you drank things other than wine.” 

Grantaire very resolutely didn’t stop grinning. “You underestimate me. Why, just last night I had vodka!”

Enjolras does not grin back but Grantaire did not take it personally because Enjolras never grinned.

Grantaire ordered a mocha and Enjolras ordered a soy raspberry latte which Grantaire very pointedly did not make fun of her for, even though there are a lot of jokes she could make since she figured out how Enjolras takes her coffee months ago. They did not talk as they waited for their drinks. Every time they did talk they seemed to fight.

Grantaire drank some of her mocha then filled the rest with whiskey from the flask she kept on her when no one was looking, like she always did, and it dulled the ache some.

Enjolras made her hurt. Enjolras made her feel lost. Enjolras had a direction and a purpose and Grantaire had none. She only had Enjolras, and she didn’t even really have her.

Sometimes, sitting alone in her one room flat, she thought about that, and she wondered how much she would have to drink to literally drink herself into oblivion, to make all the pain stop, but she was not convinced oblivion was quite so painless as it sounded, so she never tried. 

(She was pretty sure people know her first name because Jehan knew it from living with her and she thought it was beautiful and poetic or some shit so sometimes when she got drunk she called her by it, in a sing song voice. No one else ever used it though.)

A few weeks after they see each other at the coffee shop, when their group mets at the Musain, Grantaire was feeling particularly ragged, lonely and tired. She felt like that sometimes. It was times like that when she drank more and ate less.

Jehan descended. 

“A bagel,” Grantaire said before Jehan could ask. 

Jehan frowned. “Is that all?”

“I had a project due this afternoon. I couldn’t have a real meal and paint at the same time.”

Jehan she accepted it, but she was fingering her bag and Grantaire was certain a granola bar would be shoved into her hands later. 

Enjolras was angry that night. Something about a petition they had been organizing not getting enough signatures. She was stalking around the Musain, pushing hair out of her face angrily, snapping bits of rhetoric at people. _She’s beautiful when she’s angry._

Grantaire decided that this perhaps was not the best night to challenge her. No, she would just keep her head down, not point out how it hardly mattered because a few measly signatures would never make a difference. She ordered a drink and readied herself to wait out the storm. If she could not help Enjolras, not be useful, do nothing to earn her love, she could not hinder her in a moment like this. She could do nothing to earn her contempt.

It was futile though, because halfway through her drink Enjolras turned on her, blue eyes dark with anger. “And you,” she snapped. “I suppose you are happy?”

Grantaire blinked, caught in a sip, and let the glass fall. Her lipstick stained the glass. 

“Wh-” was all she got out before Enjolras interrupted her again. Enjolras was quite good at speaking, and it was hard for her to stop sometimes.

“Just last week you were going on about how our petition wouldn’t make any difference, and no one would sign! You did nothing to help us get signatures! You were entirely useless and did nothing but drag us down! _Are you happy_?” 

Grantaire did not know what to say. Everyone was looking at her. Before she could stop herself she was speaking though, saying, “Please, as if my participation would have made a difference. It wouldn’t have mattered.”

Enjolras’ cheeks flushed red with anger and it was not like the pink from the cold but it was still very pretty. “No, it wouldn’t have mattered, would it? Nothing matters to you! Nothing except drinking and sleeping with women! You are apathetic and useless! Why do you even come here Grantaire?”

Grantaire said nothing. She looked at her glass then downs it. Enjolras’ eyes narrowed and her beautiful lips pressed into a thin, hard line. 

“Have you ever been good for anything?” she growled, venom dripping from her lovely voice.

Grantaire still said nothing.

Finally Enjolras shook her head, disgust burning in her eyes. “Whatever. If you want to be good for nothing, fine, but stop getting in the way of actual progress.” 

She stormed away, and Grantaire watched her hair flow behind her. Then she silently stood, paid for her drink, at turned to leave.

She could feel the eyes of everyone on her as she walked out the door. 

She stood on the street corner for a long time, cold stinging her hands, staring at the dark sky. 

(Aurélie was her name. Aurélie Grantaire. She did not go by it. Aurélie meant golden, and she knew that she is anything but. She was black and shriveled on the inside, and the golden light of Enjolras hurt her.)

She walked back to her flat in silence, and when she reached it she pulled out a hidden bottle of who-the-fuck-cares and sat on the floor of her kitchenette, drinking. She drank and she drank and when she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand her lipstick rubbed onto it. 

She stared at it.

It had been Isabelle who had shown her how to put on make up. She had tried to befriend wild, hopeless Grantaire, tried to make a lady out of her. She had taken her into her room and shown her how to put on make up and they giggled together and Grantaire watched what she did with great interest. 

When she had finished she cupped Grantaire’s face in her hands and cried “See? It’s not that hard! You’re so pretty like this Aurélie!”

It was then Grantaire had tried to kiss her.

Isabelle had pushed Grantaire back so hard her back hit the wall. Her mouth was stained with the lipstick that had just been applied to Grantaire’s mouth. Her eyes had burned with disgust.

Like Enjolras’ eyes.

Grantaire screamed and threw the bottle across the kitchenette. It shattered and the little alcohol that was still in it dripped down the now scarred wall. 

Grantaire felt sick, but she stumbled across the room, avoided the glass, and threw herself on the futon she slept on.

She loved Enjolras. She wanted Enjolras to love her. She wanted Enjolras to smile at her and like her and she wanted them to bring out the best in each other, she wanted them to eat together so neither of them would ever forget again.

_But we would probably just fight all the time and both forget to eat and she would hate me even more and we would both starve._

Grantaire did not cry, hadn’t in a long time, so she most definitely didn’t cry herself to sleep. Instead she stripped down to her underwear and lay there, trembling and nauseous and hating herself and wishing she could hate Enjolras. 

She also wished, sometimes, that just one of the girls she fucked would stay the night, so she would have someone to hold, just once. She hated sleeping alone.

She must have fallen asleep at some point though, because she woke up buried underneath her blanket, the noise of knocking hurting her head. She ignored it, and after a little bit the noise changed to the sound of a key in the lock. 

Ah. Jehan then. She gave her a key because Jehan still liked to spend time with Grantaire, god knows why, and it made everything easier. 

When the door opened she spoke up. 

“I don’t want to talk Jehan. I just want to sleep.” Her voice sounded awful, but her head felt worse.

There was no response. Then she heard feet shuffling towards her kitchenette. “I would watch your step,” she called out weakly. The feet stop for a minute, then she heard a clutter of noise and she realized than Jehan must be grabbing the broom she always leaves propped up against her wall for cleaning up art related mess. How thoughtful. How Jehan. She fell back asleep for a little bit, or at least she must because she woke up again to something being set down on the table next to her futon. Then the footsteps were walking away and and her door was being open and shut again, the key in the lock again.

Grantaire lay there a few more moments, before finally peeking her head out from under the covers. The light from hurt her head blindingly, and it was a few more moments before she could look at what had been set on her table. 

A paper coffee cup, and a breakfast sandwich. And a note.

It read: “ _Jehan gave me the key. She also said all you had to eat yesterday was a bagel. You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. -E_ ”

Grantaire stared at the note for a long time. 

It wasn’t an apology. But she hadn’t been expecting an apology. She hadn’t been expecting anything.

She ate the sandwich and drank the mocha.

(The name written on the cup, that Enjolras must have given the shop, read _Aurélie_.)

She didn’t even put any whiskey in the coffee this time.


End file.
